


Kiss Me Twice

by AnInternationalReputation



Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Christmas, Dancing, M/M, Music, Sad, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnInternationalReputation/pseuds/AnInternationalReputation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all too easy to see patterns after the fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Me Twice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DrWorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrWorm/gifts).



_"Once a King of Fillory, always-"_   
_"Save it. Save it. That's bullshit and you know it."_

There had been some feeble attempt at strategizing. Of course there was nothing they could do to get him back; the prospect wasn't so much as addressed, but maybe, just maybe, there'd be something else. Maybe they could visit...? But the balance of the world was too fragile, the time dilation too much of a risk, the prospect that their journey would only cause more pain was too keen.  
  
All things considered, they'd moved pretty quickly to the Bargaining stage of grief. That's what happens when you're used to getting what you want.

They haven't left each other alone. Not tonight, at least not for long. Every so often someone has left to have another bottle of something fetched - the servants are keeping nearby, but out of sight — or for a bit longer, for whatever they need to do that can't be done in front of the others. It doesn't matter how much they've been through together: some things are always going to be private, and anyway, the process of mourning has never bent much to the rule of logic.

Eliot's currently melted into one of the castle's many large, comfortable chairs, his head leaned back far enough to stare at the ceiling. If Castle Whitespire were more of a _palace_ , he might have been looking up at intricate frescoes, but the ceiling, at least in this room, is a stark, blank white. Minimalist, just the way Quentin liked it.

* * *

_"I-I-Iii don't want a lot for Christmas  
There is just one thing I ne-eed..."_

The lipstick is Janet's. She hasn't yet caught on to the fact that he's moved it to his area of the medicine cabinet - or if she has, she's letting him keep it for now. He's not going to concern himself with the reasoning behind the second option.

Really, he'd just ducked into the bathroom to take a piss before getting dressed for the evening. But then the radio out in the living room started in on the familiar chimes at the beginning of that song (despite the fact that the city's trees haven't even shed the last of their leaves), and a whim struck. Eliot throws back the remainder of the vodka tonic and balances the empty glass on the edge of the sink.

_"I don't care about the presents  
Underneath the Christmas tree..."_

A year ago, he wouldn't have thought for a second of doing anything to highlight the contentious lower half of his face. By now, he's passed through grudging acceptance of his crooked teeth and strangely-angled jaw to the occasional act of aggressive ugliness, or at the very least, garishness. It doesn't make him feel any more attractive, really, but it does feel like putting on a bright, shiny layer of armor. He's Bowie in _Life On Mars_ , smearing neon eyeshadow over the anomaly of his mismatched pupils.

The lipstick goes on, a pouty, sensual red.

_"I just want you for my own_   
_More than you could ever know_   
_Make my wish come truuuuue-ooo-oo..."  
_

The robe was one of the first things he stole in New York. They'd only been flexing their magical muscles in those first days, testing boundaries that were only just beginning to open up for them. He'd grabbed it off the rack and cast a quick charm before simply walking out. Within the next week, they'd worked out how to extract infinite amounts from ATMs, and such vulgar methods were never needed again. But Eliot still adores the article: it's blue and silky and will always have a tinge of the illicit about it.

He adjusts the robe, pulls the waistband tighter - then pulls it open again, just so, over his chest.

_"Aaaall I want for Christma-haaas_   
_Iiiis..._   
_You-ooooo"_

The jingle bells ring, the piano picks up the faster tempo, and Eliot flings open the bathroom door before draping himself against the jamb like it's a makeshift pole.

Luckily, Quentin's still in the living room. Flipping through one of the texts they'd picked up in Greenwich Village, so heavy it wasn't worth lifting off the coffee table onto your lap. Because of course he is. Tell the boy it's time to get ready for a night on the town, he'll start wanting to do spell work.

He doesn't look up. Apparently the abrupt opening of the bathroom door wasn't enough to get his attention.

But Mariah soldiers on, and so does Eliot. He's lip-syncing the words, peeling off the door frame and starting a jazzy strut toward the sofa. _That_ gets Quentin's attention. He looks up just in time to see Eliot drawing a hand down his own chest, tugging at the opening of the robe. Nothing really changes in his face, except that it all goes _still_ , still and schooled, determined not to show whatever reaction just pinged inside his head.

Perfect.

Eliot gets to the couch and flings up a leg, planting his foot just to the side of Quentin's thigh.

_"I don't need to hang my stocking  
There upon the fireplace"_

He flexes his hips, leans in close, balancing himself with a hand on the back of the couch, just over Quentin's shoulder. Unconsciously or not, Quentin's face turns toward Eliot's painted smile.

_"Santa Claus won't make me happy  
With a toy on Christmas Day"_

"Fucking hell, Eliot," Quentin laughs, shoving Eliot aside just enough to make him half-stumble, and squirms his way up from the couch. Chicken. "Thought you were getting dressed."

Eliot makes an exaggerated cross in mid-air. "The Spirit of Mariah moves you."

Quentin smirks, gestures to his face. "You gonna do your eyes next?"

Eliot might have put the lipstick on as a gag, but the mocking tone he hears in Quentin's voice makes him bristle.

"Maybe I will."

* * *

Eliot frowns at the white ceiling. Why _that_ memory? It's not a very nice one.

Then again, that's a given when it takes place in New York. Ugh. The whole experience in that dreadful city can be summed up in one disgusted non-word. He's never been drunk again the same way he was in Manhattan: aggressively and desperately, anything to distract from his lack of direction. As memories of Quentin go, it's lackluster. What stings now is not so much the way Quentin mocked him, but how he couldn't take the teasing without instantly turning into a snapping harridan.

He raises his glass and replays the moment from before he started slipping into the mire of self-analysis: Quentin smiling, laughing, pushing him aside.

They'd done ecstasy that night. The two months in New York before Penny turned up tend to blur into a swirling haze of interchangeable substances, like that song by Queens of the Stone Age. _Nicotine, valium, vicodin, marijuana... _ That night, though...

...oh.

* * *

Quentin's cheek is marked. Harder to tell the exact shade now that the lights are swirling, green and pink and blue. But the shape is unmistakable, the perfect — almost perfect — impression of a pair of lips, made up of striking lines.

Back a moment. The music is ear-splitting and Eliot's brain is vibrating like a tuning fork. He did not, in fact, do his eyes, but left the lipstick on as a match to his red-pinstriped shirt and a contrast to his pure white jacket. You'd have to do a lot more to get someone to look twice in this city.

The drugs, the music, and the space draw all the dancers inward, toward one another — gravitational force. Eliot's seen more than one face or body he wouldn't mind adding to his roster, but that was before the chemicals started kicking in and the distinctions between bodies started crumbling. Anyhow, no one's naked yet. Anybody will do.

Quentin falls backward into him — that's how it seems to happen. Eliot catches him with an arm around the waist, but mostly with his torso. His body perceives _solid_ and _warm_ , and moves against it, feels it move in response. The music thrums through both of them: one pounding bass hit, then another.

Eliot's head is resting against Quentin's. Quentin's cheek is right there. The image of Quentin's efforts not to smile when he's turned toward Eliot's lips flashes across his mind, and another whim strikes.

His arm tightens around Quentin's waist, holding him still or the space of two beats, of a breath, so he can make a clean impression with the lipstick. A playful sign to anyone who might see it. _  
_

Fast forward. They're separated now, one or both of them drawn away by the motion of the crowd. In between being wrapped up in one pair of arms and the next, Eliot catches a glimpse of Quentin, dancing away. Didn't acknowledge the kiss when it happened, doesn't seem to notice it now.

Quentin not noticing. Quentin laughing and shoving. Eliot teasing and toying, all fun and games until the line is drawn. Brushing off the brush-offs, going back to the other boys with sharp smiles, the ones who take to him easily.

_"Sorry. But you were kissing everybody else."_

* * *

His glass is empty. Eliot shifts slowly, encouraging the room to keep still, and nearly stands — until he feels a hand against his. Janet takes the glass from him wordlessly, already on her way to get more for herself.

He's no longer naive enough to believe drinking enough is going to fix — even help — any of it. But it's also not going to hurt much of anything other than his liver, which has gone long enough without this kind of beating. Eliot lets go of the glass and sinks back into the chair.

Ever since they abandoned trying to somehow fix the situation they've been sitting in almost total silence. Speaking up when it occurs to them, like Quakers at a holy meeting, only with more whiskey. Eliot watches Janet pouring.

"An admirer of Mae West's once told her he'd give half his life for one kiss." He sits up halfway again, reaching out to take the refilled glass.

Quentin's taste, such as it was, is long gone, washed out. He can still conjure up the idea of it, same as he can recall the smell of the dance floor, the firmness of a cheek against his lips. He tips up the glass, neither the first nor last toast of the evening.

"'Then kiss me twice,' she said."

If the others don't understand, they elect not to ask.


End file.
